The Rose of Allandale. A sensational story of love and crime

Prologue

WITH LITTLE WINNIE BLYTH

See yonder little maiden at play by herself on the lawn, reader ? In your mind's eye, I mean. ' Why, during a summer day's ramble,' you may tell me, ' I can see a dozen such little maidens.' True enough, and a very pretty picture each may make, one not unworthy of study or thought. ' Hilda, dear, you are my little girl to-day. Your father and mother are away from home, and I have promised to see that nothing happens to you. Come, then, and talk to me for a short time, for this magazine is dry and unprofitable.' This wildery of a lawn on which I swing in my hammock is all unkempt and rough, but none the less beautiful to my eye on that account. It is starred over with crimsontipped daisies, it is golden in some parts with the rich blossoms of the bird's-foot trefoil, the yellow celandine hugs it, the pink-flowered lady's smock nods here and there, and the scented bee orchis, with many a strange grasslet and floweret besides that are seldom met with except on lonely heath or moorland.

But there is a flush of rhododendron banks, close by the fence yonder, and a sea of bright, red roses flows over the green of the May hedge, and on this still, summer evening the rich, sweet scent of the syringa or mock orange floats triumphant everywhere. In under the hedge-row here, and close to my hammock, a patch of the blue, blue speedwell is hiding from the sun. Not more blue are these blossoms than the eyes of my wee companion, who stands beside me now, her hand in A mine, her eyes filled half with wonder, half with willingness to please. A wealth of sheeny hair waves over her shoulders, the sunshine kisses it, the west wind toys with it. Her red lips are parted in readiness to smile, or to change to sadness. Oh, beauty ! Oh, youthful innocence and gentle love ! ' Why do you look at me so, dear uncle ? ' What can I answer ?

Can I tell her that a child-girl whom Nature has gifted with rare beauty, is ever to me a subject of study, fraught with a species of fearful fascination ? — for what may not her future be ? But I cannot tell Hilda this. ' I was thinking about a story, dear.' The eyes brighten now, animation claims every feature for its own. ' Oh, tell me the story, do ! ' ' Nay, my little saucy niece ; this particular story is one you would not understand. It is far too sad. It is such a story that I pray the good God you may never be capable of understanding. But don't let your face cloud over, Hilda. Presently I'll tell you a tale all to yourself. A witch ? Yes, certainly, with a witch in it, and a prince in it, and a chariot with white horses and flowing manes in it. Then when I have finished you shall go back to your celandines and your daisies, and complete the garland you have been weaving for honest, faithful Carlo.' But, reader, what may or may not this child, whose soft hand rests in mine, become when years have rolled on and brought her up to woman's estate ?

Hilda has had her fairy tale. She has listened to it with parted lips and marvelling eyes. She has gone back to the daisies now and is rolling on the grass with Carlo, and both are as happy as this summer day is long. The sun is sinking lower and lower, its yellow beams are now tinging the white syringa blossoms, but I can see to write for a good hour yet, and the story I dared not tell to the child I will tell to you, if so be I can have your attention. Just such a tiny person as Hilda was Winifred Blyth many years ago. Her sisters were three, and she was the youngest ; the ' Baby ' she was called, and as the baby, caressed and petted by all. Not that such treatment WITH LITTLE WINNIE BLYTH 3 ' spoiled ' her, as it is termed, for, though apt to be a little wayward at times, the child's heart was brimful of genuine affection and love.

Like Hilda, she was her uncle's pet. Like Hilda, she was very beautiful and winning. Winnie's eyes were quite as blue as Hilda's, her lips quite as full and red, and her hair was a marvel to all who saw it. Indeed, in a girl of ten such hirsute luxuriance seemed almost unnatural. I do not know for certain, but I am of opinion that abundance of hair is a token of strength of character and strong passions. I have noted this many, many times, and certainly Winnie's case proved no excep tion to the rule — if rule, indeed, it be. Winnie Blyth's young days were very happy — as all children's ought to be — and burdened with never a care or sorrow. Her father, who had been a captain in the Royal Navy, she could barely remember, so young was she when he died. After his death her mother had left the old house near Portsmouth where her husband had delighted to dwell in order to be within sound of the sea, and gone to reside near to a beautiful river and close to a cloudland of woods that on each side of the stream rose, rolling up towards their horizon, concealing many a romantic, moss-clad dell, and many a flowery, ferny nook, in which Winnie fully be lieved that fairies dwelt and conducted their revels under the moonbeams.

Two traits in Winnie's character, quite apart from her affectionate disposition, were prominent enough, namely — self-possession and self-sufficiency. She had a governess, it is true, and she also had an ayah — the latter she loved the better — but she did not feel herself bound to be trammelled by either. During school hours Miss Brown was Winnie's teacher, that was all ; during her hours of idleness the ayah, who had come over with her from India when Winnie was quite a baby, was the child's slave. In her ways and in her treatment of servants the girl was indeed more of an Indian than anything else. At ten years of age, then, Winnie seemed to possess all the wisdom of a woman ; she was innocent, piquant and pretty, always frank and serious or merry by turns, her moods changing, too, as quickly as do the tints of green on woodlands, when the wind chases cloudlets athwart a summer sky.

And the woodlands all around her home at Benmorc, and the green banks of the river were Winnie's happy hunting grounds. She hunted alone, however. It is true that the good-natured ayah always walked out with her, and seldom came home without her, but the first thing that Winnie did when she reached the woods was either to lose the ayah, or command her to be seated with her book on a certain bank till it should please Winnie, her mistress, to return from her rambles and visits to fairy dells, laden with wild flowers or little unsightly pets, not unfrequently toads, lizards, or even snakes. The ayah would fain have come too. 'No, you shall not,' Winnie would say. 'English fairies would be afraid of you, you know.' The woods were very extensive, and had many puzzling little pathways through them, so it is no wonder that Winnie sometimes lost herself, and was absent for hours from her half-distracted nurse.

One summer's afternoon, when Winnie was about twelve years of age, she lost herself far more completely than ever she had done before. The day had been very warm, and the woods were deliciously cool and inviting, so she had heedlessly wandered on and on and on, till, when attempting to retrace her steps, she found that she could tell neither east from west nor north from south, and had no idea at all in which direction her home lay, or the spot where she had stationed her ayah. Wearied beyond measure at last, and not certain that she was not going farther and farther in a wrong direction, she sat herself down in a little mossy glade close to a drooping hazel tree. Many a child so situated would have commenced to cry, but Winnie was nothing if not brave. She sat there for quite a long time in silence. ' Heigho ! ' she said aloud at last, ' I daresay I shall be like one of the babes in the wood.

I shall die in this dismal forest, and cock-robin will come and cover me with leaves. I wish some good fairy would appear and show me the way home. But they never do come when they are wanted. I — ' How much longer her soliloquy would have been I cannot say. It was interrupted by the appearance of a young man, who came softly and silently walking over the moss towards her. Winnie exhibited neither fear nor wonder. ' I'm so glad you've come,' she said, ' though, of course WITH LITTLE WINNIE BLYTH 5 you're not a fairy, nor anything like one. But you know all the woods, so please show me my way home.' The youth was dressed in the garb of a merchant sailor, midshipman or junior mate. He was handsome, though not tall, and his red-brick complexion and slight moustache made him interesting even to Winnie's eyes.

There was something about the child that enforced respect, and he doffed his cap as he smilingly made reply that he would gladly guide her in whatever direction she wanted to go. 'Take my hand, then, quick,' said Winnie. 'I feel rather tired, and I have left my ayah at the east corner of the wood.' On many a dark and lonesome night afterwards, when keeping his watch at sea, did Jack Roberts look back with pleasure to that innocent ramble through the sunset woods with little Winnie Blyth. He was on a spell of leave at the time he had met the child, and although that evening she had bidden him a light and laughing good-bye, and he never expected to see her more, still, day after day, book in hand, he found himself haunting those woods in the hope he might meet her again. And his patience was rewarded at last.

One day he found her in a rocky glade, high up on a cliff, culling ferns and wild flowers. She called to him, and presently descended, and laughingly extended her hand. Her hat had fallen off, her face was hot and flushed with exertion, her blue eyes sparkled, and her wondrous hair had escaped from its semi-confinement, and floated all about and around her. Jack Roberts was astonished at the child's rare beauty. Nay, more, he was in love from that very moment — if, indeed, he had not been before. He chided himself, never theless, for being so. He felt half-ashamed of himself. What was she but a baby, after all ? — a baby compared to him, at all events, for he was nineteen years of age. But the more he fought against the feeling the more it mastered and enthralled him. He felt himself conquered, and gave in.

It never had struck him that, young though Winnie was in years, she had been reared and nurtured under an Indian sun, and that in tropical countries flora and fauna both come more speedily to rich and beautiful maturity than in colder climes. , . Jack never knew what captivated him most — Winnie s strange beauty or her innocence and frankness of speech. She was very, very natural. There was no acting about the child ; she was fearless and free. The youthful pair lingered long in the woods that day. On saying 'Good-bye' the young man would have kissed her, but here the little woman came to the front. ' Oh, no,' she said, drawing back. ' Mother says that would not be right, and mother is never wrong. We are not betrothed yet, you know.' Jack Roberts met Winnie many, many times after this, not certainly by appointment, and yet not altogether by chance, perhaps.

The young sailor's strange love deepened and deepened, and without doubt the child had come to love him, though well might it have been for both had they never met. Jack never allowed himself to talk anything very serious to Winnie ; he just gave himself up unreservedly to the pleasure, to the happiness of the hours he spent in her company. His was a kind of love of which, as I have already hinted, he was half-ashamed. He could not define it, however ; it was not fun, it was not flirtation, and certainly it did not partake of that fatherly kind of affection that older people have for children. Still, he could not believe it serious either in his own heart or in Winnie's. Not even when she began sentences, as she sometimes did with the words, ' When we are married, you know, Jack.' No, he could neither understand nor define it ; he therefore gave up any further attempts to do either.

So the time sped on. Jack's ship was ordered to sea, and the hour of parting came. A very sad one it was for Winnie, at all events. She surrendered herself to a perfect abandon of grief. She hung around him. She wept and cried till it really seemed her little loving heart would cease to beat, and it needed all Jack's reserve of manhood at last to bring the sad parting to a close. So Jack's ship went away to sea, and, like many a sailor's bride, Winnie was left to mourn. Years flew by — two, three, four. Jack had not forgotton Winnie, it is true, but he still looked back upon his courtship of her as youthful folly, and felt as if he had done what was not right. In every port a sailor comes to, if he has not a sweetheart he generally has a little flirtation, so by the time Jack came home he had been pretty well hardened off in the art of love, and his heart, well singed at the altar of Cupid, was not likely to catch fire easily.

Poor Winnie ! Whether her love for Jack had died away altogether or not, I cannot say. She had known romance, and that would always dwell in her heart, and child-like she used always to pray for her sailor far at sea. She was in her seventeenth year when Jack met her again. Indeed, he went boldly to see her, and together they laughed over the old happy days, and their rambling and love-making in the forest. That was all very well. Laugh as they might, now that they were thrown together again, the old love began to re-bud and then to blossom, and lo ! they became engaged. Jack was to take one more voyage to sea and then they would be married, and he knew of a berth he could get on shore. To be sure they would be poor for a time, but what did that signify, seeing that they could be ever and ever together ?

That voyage of Jack's was but for a year, but it seemed the longest year that ever Winnie had spent. But it came to an end at last, as years have a habit of doing, whether we are happy or the reverse. Very sad indeed were Winnie's sisters and mother when the ship that bore her, and Jack her husband, sailed away on her long voyage round the Cape for Ceylon. Winnie shed tears, too, at parting, but the fullness of her love for Jack supported her. Little did she dream of the life that was before her.

Chapter II

prologue (continued) — the red blood spurting THROUGH HIS FINGERS Mr Frederick Wallard was paymaster, or rather purser, on board the Tantallon Castle, bound for the Cape and Ceylon. A very lucky fellow, his subordinates considered him, to hold so high a situation in the Company's service, for he was but a few months over twenty years of age. In the last passage out he had been only clerk, but his chief had died during the voyage, and Wallard had carried on his duties so efficiently that he was promoted to the purser's shoes. Somehow, he was no favourite with his messmates, the other officers. He was a handsome young fellow, and though by no means supercilious or haughty, his face was ever wreathed in a kind of ready-made smile, while his politeness knew neither bounds nor limits. It was that perpetual smile — which he could not talk without — that repelled men.

They were unable to get beyond it, as it were, to read his real character. It was a curtain behind which no man had ever ventured to peep, therefore he was always addressed as Mr Wallard, never as Wallard, far less as Fred. It was probably just as well that there were few who could read this man's heart, for it was not calculated to in spire friendship. Wallard was his own friend, however. He much approved of himself; he was ever proud of him self and his appearance and his manners, but, above all, proud of the power he thought he possessed over ladies, as regards pleasing them, at least. He gave himself up entirely and completely to the sport of lady-killing, that is, when he found a lady that he considered worth killing. Gentle or simple, married or single, young or old, it was all one to Mr Frederick Wallard, and the wreathed smile that repelled men, he thoroughly believed — probably with some degree of truth — attracted women.

And, young though he was, the purser was all and wholly a man of the world. As soon as his various duties connected with the comfort of the passengers, the arrangement of luggage and stores, and some other odds and ends were finished, the purser was a comparatively free man, and at liberty to look after the comfort of sea-sick lady passengers. This was his mission, and, to tell the truth, the captain, and, for that matter, the Company, were rather pleased to have a paymaster on board who made himself so agreeable, and devoted all his time to the welfare and happiness of delicate ladies. As for Wallard himself, he never went without his reward, nor was he difficult to please — a word of thanks, a languid smile or bow, was guerdon enough for a favour done. He would help ladies on deck, or up and on to the bridge ; he would arrange their chairs for them in the most comfortable posi tions ; he would tuck rugs round their feet and legs in the most gentle and scientific manner ; he would hurry away and bring them books, or tea, or cooling drinks ; he would gently raise them while they drank, and arrange the pillows so that they could read with comfort and ease, or, failing this, he would read to them.

Moreover, he was a capital conversationalist ; knew how to modulate his voice, knew intuitively, as it were, the kind of talk that would please individually, and precisely the sort of anecdote that would amuse or interest. It is no wonder, therefore, that there was no officer on board half so popular with the ladies as Mr Frederick Wallard. Not even the doctor — a rough and right old sailor — although he was second favourite. I do not believe, however, that this man was capable of true affection. Passion he may have felt, but love, I think, was beyond his nature. Nevertheless, on the fourth day, when Winnie, now Mrs Roberts, came on deck, looking somewhat pale and languid, and leaning on the arm of her dear Jack, Wallard had no sooner looked upon her than he promised himself a conquest. Having looked at her, he looked at her husband. ' That little muff,' he said to himself, ' is quite unworthy to possess a girl of such exquisite beauty.

I'll look after poor Mrs Roberts.' Poor Mrs Roberts got on very well with her Jack, how ever, and for weeks gave Wallard no chance of seeing to her. The man was in the habit of changing his seat almost every day at table, so as to dispense the favour of his person indis criminately among his lady clients, and many became jealous because for six consecutive days he had sat near to Mrs Roberts, and had never ceased to be amiable towards her. As for Jack, while listening politely and smilingly to all he had to say, he plainly ignored and despised him, and there were times when Jack, maddened with jealousy, had half a mind to thrust the salt-cellar down Wallard's false throat. But he restrained himself. And now the ship had called at the Cape, and while on shore at a picnic, Wallard managed to lose himself in the bush with Mrs Roberts— still the gentle, somewhat way ward, but affectionate Winnie.

The other ladies had mono polised poor Jack, but seeing his anxious looks they did not hesitate to rally him about what they called his runaway wife. They, too, were piqued. ' I believe they'll never come back,' one said. ' They must have eloped,' remarked another. ' Oh, Mr Roberts, you shouldn't really have packed off your dear little wife in such company as that of the dread fully fascinating Paymaster Wallard,' said a third. When the shades of evening began to fall, and the lost ones had not returned, Jack could stand it no longer. He abruptly left his circle and dashed away in the direction he had seen them disappear. He had not gone far before he could see them coming sauntering along, arm-in-arm, too, Wallard's head bent in earnest conversation, and very close to Winnie's face. Jack was moved to madness.

He rushed wildly to meet them. It was surely fright that made Winnie turn so red. ' Where the devil have you been ? ' he cried. ' Oh, Jack, dear, we've had such an adventure. We've been lost. Haven't we, Mr Wallard ? ' Winnie was white now and trembling. Jack said never another word. He took his wife's arm within his own, and without condescending to look at the smiling Wallard, he marched her off to the camp. But Wallard was by no means put about. During the rest of the evening he was the life and soul of the whole party, and loud and joyously rang the laughter his conversation had eiicited. Jack was dumb. Jack was a brute, more than one lady whispered. Winnie herself was fain several times to join the laughing chorus, despite the great and new load of sorrow at her heart. Yes, sorrow was something very new to Winnie, something very strange.

Hitherto she had been petted and pampered by everyone who knew her — her mother, her sisters, her ayah ; all had combined to make her existence happy. And so had Jack, too. She had never seen him look so dreadful as he had looked to-day. It was a revelation to her. Besides, what had she done to deserve it ? Surely, she thought, there could have been no harm in walking with Wallard, who was so well informed as to the natural history of every bush and tree and flower that grew, and so kindly willing to impart his information to her. Jack hardly spoke a word while going towards the harbour and on board, nor did he enter the cabin — his cabin and Winnie's — to dress for dinner. He preferred to sulk, as the other lady passengers called it, and all throughout the dinner time his footsteps could be heard on deck walking rapidly to and fro.

With a coolness that was almost impertinence under the sad circumstances, having seen Winnie seated, Wallard quietly took the seat beside her, and was urgent in his attentions towards her, despite the fact that Jack could see all through the skylight. ' Dear Mrs Roberts,' he began, ' you do not look well ; I must see to it that you make a good dinner ; you must have a little wine to-day. The long walk in the sun has, I fear, put you out of sorts, and it was all my fault, too. For a time Winnie spoke only in monosyllables, but gradually she relaxed, and soon she was listening to the pay master's clever anecdotes and conversation, and laughing as loud as anyone. She was laughing, though in a semi-hysterical kind of way, and a word might have turned the scale and caused her to burst into a flood of tears.

At the very bottom of her heart lay the memory of Jack's unkindness. It had caused her a rude awakening from a dream that was part and portion of her life itself. She took a little comfort at last in the belief that poor Jack, as she thought of him, could not be well. She must ask the doctor to see him and give him something, and he would soon be her own old, loving Jack again. When she entered their cabin or stateroom, after dinner, there was no Jack there, so she lay down on the little sofa and cried herself asleep. By-and-by Jack came in and she awoke. ' Oh, Jack,' she cried, ' you didn't mean to be unkind, did you, dear ? ' She extended her arms to him in the loving, confiding way she used to, when a child, in the woods. Jack's brow was clouded. He took no notice of the preferred caress. ' Look here,' he said, and every word sank into Winnie's heart like cold lead. ' Look here, Mrs Roberts — ' ' How cruel,' she thought. 'This must stop.

It must stop just right away here. I am not going to have that dude of a Wallard dangling after you wherever you go. I am not going to have the other ladies tittle-tattling about my wife, and scandalising her and me. It must stop, and don't you forget it.' She was crying once more. She was sobbing as if her gentle heart would really burst or break. But he made no attempt to comfort or console her. He simply turned in, leaving her to sleep all undressed on the sofa where she lay. And there he found her in the morning. He kissed her now, though not affectionately. ' I hope you'll mind what I told you last night,' he said, and walked on deck. Winnie certainly gave her husband no cause for jealousy that day nor for several days, and peace was restored, or seemed to be, though Winnie never, never could be quite the same again.

An opening gulf seemed fixed between her heart and her husband's, and Time itself could never bridge it o'er. She had seen Jack in a new light — in his true colours, indeed — jealous and fiercely passionate. It is men like Roberts who commit red murders, during the time that the foul fiend, Jealousy, takes complete possession of their souls, turning love to bitter hate, and making revenge seem the only pleasure worth living an hour for. If there be one bad trait in the character of such men as this Jack Roberts predominating above all others, it is ex treme selfishness. They can love, it is true, but the objects of their affections must be their slaves, and love them in return without having anything even of the nature of friendship to bestow on another. It is pleasant for such men to be loved, to be flattered and adored, and really the love they have to give in return is not worth possessing.

They worship but one god, his name is Self, and the wife or the sweetheart, as the case may be, is but the priestess thereto. But seeing how matters stood, Wallard kept aloof for the time being. The lay of the land did not please him quite, but he flattered himself that his time would come. ' Undoubtedly,' he said to himself, ' Mrs Roberts is not insensible to my manner and looks, and it is but little likely that she can love such a boor of a husband as she has been tied to. I'll wait. I'll let things slide for a bit.' The Tantallon Castle had made a good passage from the dark and stormy regions of the Cape. She had now passed the latitudes of the Mauritius and even Mozambique itself, and was standing out and away into the middle of the blue Indian Ocean. The weather was gloriously exhilarating, though hot, and the sea was without wave or ripple.

Both fore and aft everyone seemed happy. In a week or two more the long and lonesome voyage would come to an end, and the good ship lie at anchor near one of the fairest isles of earth. One afternoon Jack and Winnie had been walking up and down the quarter deck, her arm through his, she look ing very happy indeed, for most of her old confidence in her husband had returned. Forward, near the forecastle, walked Wallard, telescope across his arm, slowly to and fro. His eyes were directed aft, nevertheless, and although Jack could not see this, Winnie felt it, and a shadow pressed coldly over her heart. It was the shadow of a coming event, and a very terrible one, too. Presently Jack left her and entered the smoking-room, and a few minutes afterwards there was a rush forward of many of the lady passengers.